


It is not flesh and blood

by OneWingedEggplant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Just bros being bros, No Incest, and you know parenting?, i guess parenting is sorta the main focus of this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWingedEggplant/pseuds/OneWingedEggplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let’s face it: there’s a wide variety of things you undoubtedly exceed at. You’re a Strider, after all.<br/>You are a master swordsman, you’re a genius when it comes to stealth and deceit, your DJing skills are nothing short of radical, and you know damn well how to sew weirdly shaped puppets with notoriously sized plush rumps. No one’s ever beaten you at a hashrap battle before and you’ve got a bitching ventriloquism act that has put veterans on shame. You’re surprisingly good at Twister, spitting contests, birdwatching and candle-making. Everything you’ve ever tried, you’ve accomplished.<br/>But parenting… Well, you don’t really know how well you’re gonna do in that particular subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons”—Johann Schiller.

There is something deeply ironic about the unironical way you keep fidgeting with the car keys inside your jeans’ pocket. You are sure of it. It’s a half-nervous, half-eager gesture that you struggle to subdue—even someone so skillful in the complex art of keeping his cool like you has his moments of weakness when it comes to suppressing his emotions.

There is a particular reason for that matter, though. You are currently facing the worst possible scenario you’ve spent the past five years preparing for. But honestly, you’d be more ready to deal with an upcoming meteorite shower than to sit here in this crowded school hallway, surrounded by all of these home-loving people and waiting for the imminent catastrophe that you know damn well is about to come.

It’s an impending issue that you’d like to see through as fast as possible, really. Probably as fast as a—you know what? You are not even up for this, making up some weird -ass comparison that doesn’t even make sense in context. Insert some twisted horse analogy here. Or perhaps one involving Presbyterian nuns and horny pirates? Whatever. You are not even sure what you were trying to say anyway.

Wait, you haven’t done that silly introductive thingy yet. Okay, here it goes.

You name is Bro Strider, and you are about to go to your first parent-teacher conference.

Well, not really. Back when you were a kid you surely attended a few of them, but this will be the first time you’ll be in a more prominent role than before. You are Dave’s guardian now, and, as such, you are obliged to these sorts of duties that you so do not know how to handle.

Besides, you had Lil Cal to keep you safe when you were a boy. When things got weird or confusing, you could just reach out to him and he’d be there to lend you a plush hand. He sure knew how to provide helpful advice in rough situations, and he was always avid to offer some sassy remarks and unironic words of affection to make you feel better. Right now, however, you are not quite sure these people will react kindly to seeing a grown man hugging the shit out of his puppet best bro.

You are tempted to do just that, though.

Anyway, as much as it might seem like it, you are totally not freaking out right now. You are too cool for that shit, and, accordingly, you refuse to acknowledge the possibility that yes, maybe you are a tad over-thinking this and perhaps this is scaring the crap out of you. You are the epitome of badassery, so there is absolutely no way in hell you could be put down by such a plebeian task as attending a boring meeting among adults and engaging in civilized conversation. You can do this.

So, no; you are not freaking out. Maybe you are slightly… troubled? Yes, you could make that work. You are slightly troubled about the upcoming reunion with this so-called teacher. For all you know, you could encounter a beast-like creature that crawled from the darkest pits of hell and decided to make a nest near sweet innocent children that ought to be protected. So you do damn well at being prepared.

And maybe that’s the reason you brought your trusty katana with you today, who knows. 

What are you supposed to do during one of these things, anyway? What the fuck do they expect you to do, smile? You don’t even know if your facial muscles are able to do that sort of hardcore feat anymore. I mean, you sure as hell can deliver a devastating know-it-all smirk. And shit, you’ve got a devious grin that has made the toughest guys crumble to a puddle of tears with just a glimpse. But a kind, amiable smile? You don’t think you could pull that off without getting an aneurysm or something.

Okay, hold your horses. You are thinking way ahead of the problem here. No one is going to force you to smile, right? Right. There will be some talking, yes. Nothing you can’t handle. Just form some elegant, mature words, refrain from using complicated analogies, don’t mention puppets, and most important of all, pretend you are at least somewhat decent.

 You're a Strider. You can pull that off.

...Right? Right.

Whatever little resolve you managed to inflict in yourself vanishes the second you hear the nearest door opening. You instantly pull yourself away from your worried thoughts and glance in its direction, your eyes meeting with what you suppose is Dave's teacher. She is young, probably as much as yourself, and gives all of you a welcoming smile as she greets you inside the classroom.

She's kinda hot, you note. Nice legs, a rather pretty face. Curvy, but not so much. She's wearing this yellow shirt and a high-waist skirt that makes her look like she came out of a 50's Hoover advertisement, and that throws you off a little. He seems like a vintage housewife, although you can’t help but think that it somehow suits her.

You stop yourself from doing a full-analysis on her and developing a complete psychological profile when you see the lil dude chilling at the back of the classroom. Dave's sitting at the far end of the room, drawing with his crayons near some other random kids that you really don’t care about. The concentrated look on his face is certainly priceless, but you do your best at keeping yourself from taking a picture for harassing purposes. You're supposed to be a caring and loving fatherly figure today, not some douchebag who likes to torment his baby brother. Which you still are, but that's not something a steamy housewife/teacher and a room full of responsible-looking parents need to know.

Miss Nice Legs instructs you and the rest of the adults to sit with your respective kids, so you silently do as she says. Actually, you wince internally at the usage of the word ‘sons’, but you do an amazing job at pretending it didn’t happen.

As you walk through the classroom, you get a few curious looks from the tiny brats. You can’t really blame them: they probably think (with reason, really) that you are the coolest dude in the whole world. It’s the shades, you know it. They’ve never seen a rad dude rock a pair of bitching shades so anime that they’re not even ironic anymore; although they don’t fully understand the complex and twisted essence of irony yet, so they just think they are plain cool. And they are probably right.

The lil dude, though, he just gives you a small nod when you sit by his side, barely looking up from his coloring. You’re so proud of the little beggar—he’ll master the art of being ironic in no time.

 “Shall we start, then?” Hot Teacher asks with enthusiasm.

Well shit. You’re screwed.

Your name is Bro Strider and you are so not ready to be a responsible parent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to be clear: i don't really know that much english. i mean, i tried my best to sound as authentic as possible and give some strider feel to bro's internal monologue but let's face it, i failed. so if you spot any errors, inaccuracies, OOCness and the likes, please let me know. all constructive criticism is more than welcome!  
> also, i don't really have a beta? and i could really use one, so if anyone's interested i'd be extremely grateful.  
> thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

It's not for a few days that you fully begin to grasp the concept of what parenthood means. To be honest, up to now you’ve been practically stumbling in the darkness with this whole raising a kid thing. You had done your research, yes; but despite the staggering amount of info you could find over the internet, you never had anything to compare your parenting skills with. Well, you could probably try and judge against your own childhood experiences, but you hardly thought that was the best approach. No, what you needed was to evaluate your capabilities by taking other families as points of comparison. Now that the lil dude had begun kindergarten, maybe this was your chance for a more thorough investigation.

When you found Dave, you went on with it as if adopting a pet. Gotta feed the thing, keep it clean, give it some attention every once in a while, and basically just make sure it doesn’t choke on its own vomit. Piece of cake. You could do that in your sleep. However, you were starting to see now that you’d handled it the wrong way. Maybe a change of perspective was needed? You are like… you are like Batman now, and this kid’s your Robin. Yeah, that’s it. He’s your responsibility, and you have to train and prepare him so he can face the world’s dangers when he becomes older. So yeah, you are Batman and he’s your faithful apprentice, not some puppy you found in a cardboard box on the street. Lil Cal can be Alfred in this particular fantasy—after all, he did look bitching with a suit.

But you were getting off track here.

So long story short, you are trying to be a better guardian now. Mostly because you ain’t particularly fond of the shifty looks you got from old women when you take the lil dude to the supermarket, but for the kid’s sake as well. He deserves a rather decent adult figure in his life.

And you already began making progress on the subject. For starters, your first parent-teacher conference went rather smoothly, in your modest opinion. You didn’t make a fool of yourself, which was a stunning feat on itself, and you started taking mental notes on the behavior of respectable parents in a school environment. Apparently improving your kid’s crayon drawings with overly detailed butt sketches was something widely frowned upon, but besides from that you did alright. Luckily there was no smiling involved.

Dave’s teacher, however, held you after everyone left and obviously had to breech the subject of Dave’s shades. “He won’t take them off,” she said, worry evident in her voice. “His attitude troubles me. He won’t listen to what he’s told and will answer back whenever it’s pointed out to him.” But you’d came prepared for that, because what were you if not a master schemer? You had a plan on the ready in case a situation like this came up. You didn’t as much as blink before you took out a perfectly forged medical prescription out of your pocket and proceeded to explain how your poor baby brother had photophobia and that the unfortunate condition made it absolutely necessary for him to wear his shades indoors. You made a little remark about how you were going to talk to the kid about his manners and everything was soon forgotten. That was the trademark Strider Charm, right there.

Anyway, after that first real contact you had with parenthood, you spent the next few days mentally preparing yourself for what’ll inevitably come. You’d changed diapers before, how much harder could any of this shit be? You tried to be ready for virtually anything: cheering for your lil bro at baseball games, helping with school projects, packing his lunchbox… damn, you were even willing to sacrifice yourself and take Dave’s hot teacher on a date if that meant he’d pass his classes. What were older bros for if they weren’t ready to take one for the team in order to get their kids in college, right?

Nonetheless, you clearly were not expecting _this_.

You’re sitting on the kitchen table with the lil dude, reading out-loud the guidelines for the lamest school assignment anyone could possibly think of. _Show and tell._ Oh, you hated that motherfucker as a kid. It’d be alright until it was your turn and then everyone was laughing at you and your My Little Pony lunchbox. Back in the day you used to be a rather avid fan of the old TV series, but your classmates didn’t understand your complex tastes so they just gave you the weird looks and thought it was girly. Damn those brats.

However, Dave stops your mind from going dark places and reviving your childhood by tugging at your sleeve. And in that moment—call it motherly instinct or whatever you want—you swear you know something’s gonna happen; and you are positive it won’t be good.

There is a brief silence before the metaphorical storm unfolds.

“Can I take a _sword_?”

 “No,” you answer almost mechanically.

 “But—“

“No.”

“But I wanna show something cool!”

“Take Cal, he’s fucking awesome.”

Actually, you regret saying that the moment it crosses your lips. You don’t want to leave Lil Cal to the hands of dirty little children with their snotty noses and drooling mouths. He’s too good of a friend to be left unprotected near a group of carless brats. That’s delicate felt, right there. A bitch to clean. But on the other hand, you can’t let the kid bring a katana to school: Miss Nice Legs’s gonna skin you alive if she finds out you allow the kid to handle your shitty swords sometimes. You’re trying to look normal here.

Dave sits back on his chair and even though his face remains as unexpressive as a five-year-old can muster, you can see he’s a bit unsure. Maybe he shares the same concerns as you do? You can’t blame him, really: of course he wouldn’t want to share Lil Cal with anyone. That puppet’s like the chill uncle he’s never had.

“Katanas are cooler,” he mumbles.

You drop everything you are doing and quickly flashstep Lil Cal into a you-broke-my-heart sort of position, with one of his little puffy hands on his chest and the other one dramatically covering his eyes. Dave’s getting a bit big for this type of theatrical ruses but who cares; he’s your kid, you gonna raise him the way you want. And Cal _is_ pretty devastated right now. You know the lil dude didn’t mean what he said, but it stings anyway—you can almost hear Cal’s little puffy heart breaking a bit. His _kokoro_ is _brokoro_.

 “I meant—” your lil bro hastily tries to amend his mistake. “The other kids think he’s creepy.” 

“Yeah well, they’re wrong. Lil Cal’s the shit.”

Dave nods silently. He’s sorry, you can tell, so you don’t press the issue. But he’s pensive, as if there’s something he can’t take of his mind. So you keep quiet for a while, letting the kid organize his thoughts until he finally speaks:

“I just wanted to impress them.”

Oh no, not the lonely boy act. This is the third time he’s done it this week and you can totally tell he’s lying from a mile away. His lie is a huge-ass neon sign on the side of the highway of your understanding of things and the motherfucking traffic police are on to that luminous little bitch like it would on a drunken driver.

“No katanas,” you simply state.

“But—“

“I said no.”

“Brooo!”

The two of you keep on going like that for about an hour, until you finally snap and grab the kid by the collar of his shirt and sit him on top of the fridge. You used to do that when he got particularly annoying back when he was little, but now that he’s grown he literally doesn’t give a fuck and keeps being a pain in the ass—the only difference now being that he can do it from a higher point in the kitchen.

You mentally facepalm: you gave the Irritating King a _throne_.  

In the end, however, you have to compromise. Dave is such an insistent brat: you really don’t know what to do with the kid anymore. By the time he throws his shoes at you to grab your attention, you don’t have any more patience to deal with this shit. You both come to the agreement that, even if you won’t let him take the actual sword to school, he can show a picture of your collection to the classroom.

So you do what any other bro would do: you take all the shitty swords you keep in the cupboards and move them all inside the pantry—where you actually stored smuppets instead of food—and make an improvised sword display, so it doesn’t look like you’ve got sharp objects skittered around the house. No one shall ever know. You tell the kid about fifteen times that he’s gotta lie like he’s never lied before and tell everyone that you keep the swords under lock at any given time, and stress the fact that if he dare suggest that he’s touched them before, you’re gonna pull his underwear over his head so hard his nuts will squash. Nonetheless, Dave breaks his ever-present stoic face to grin at you, as gleeful as a five-year-old can be, so you allow yourself to indulge the kid a bit and give a little smile as you ruffle his blond hair. Moments like this are the ones that make you realize that, though as painfully annoying as a blister in the rear, you do love the kid. Well, sorta.  

It’s all fun and games until the time comes to actually take a picture and Dave helpfully points out that you do not, in fact, own a camera. Well, that’s a bit of a hurdle. Guess you’ll have to drive all the way to the 7-Eleven and buy a goddamned disposable camera, thus ensuring the kid’s happiness. You’re a good bro after all—nevermind what’s common belief these days.

The rest of the evening goes rather smoothly. You buy the thing, take the photo, get some takeout from that Chinese place down the street and drive yourself to work. You had a gig later that night, so you had to go to the club early and get your equipment in place. You don’t worry about Dave, though—he’s past the stage where he can’t be left alone for a few hours. Besides, Cal always stays home with the kid. God bless that puppet, he loves babysitting the lil beggar while you are at work.

When you return home at 5am that morning, a bit tipsy but still somewhat coherent, you find your little bro sound asleep on the sofa, Lil Cal curling at his side. You can tell he’s been playing with the camera you bought him—his tiny hands are still clutching the thing, and from the way your smuppets are all posing in various degrees of ironic stances you assume he’s been photographing them. A bit of pride blooms in your chest: perhaps someday when he’s older you’ll have someone to take over the family business, after all.

Right now, however, you stare silently at the kid for a few seconds. You have mixed feelings about the situation: on the one hand, you are touched the lil man tried to stay up and wait for you, but on the other, you were really looking forward to passing out on the coach without even bothering to take your clothes off.  So you do whatever it is that a respectable parent does in this sort of conundrums. You sigh.

Dave’s shades are still on his face, a bit askew yet in place, so you smoothly remove them before he crushes them with his weight. Next thing you do is lift both Dave and Cal up like you used to when he was a baby and take them to his room. It poses no challenge to someone so skilled in the art of being as silent as a ninja, however smashed as he may be, to strip to his boxers and flop on the bed without waking the kid. (Nevermind Cal, though. He’s a heavy sleeper.) You drift off as soon as you hit the mattress.

Two hours later you wake up with Dave’s elbow on your face and the sound of his alarm drilling a hole through your skull. You are sporting the biggest headache you’d had in a while, tangled in Cal’s plushy limbs and with your lil bro’s weight crushing a lung. You feel like puking a handful of your most vital organs, and you’d just do that, but the kid is already awake, poking at your face and demanding waffles for breakfast.

Hangovers are so not meant for parenting, you decide.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i still don't know what i'm doing so if any of you have suggestions on cool parenting situations that would like to see on this fic, don't hesitate on messaging me up! you can find me either here on in my tumblr, it's: dietpudding.tumblr.com  
> thank you again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Turns out buying Dave a camera was the biggest mistake you’d made in a long time, closely followed by the one occasion you thought it would be a good idea to teach your then two-year-old bro how to walk by flinging throwing stars at his direction. Or that other time you cancelled your cable subscription. Yeah. Don’t do any of those. _Ever_.

It’s been about a week since you gave the kid that dreadful instrument of torture, and ever since then he’s been bugging you 24/7, demanding you buy new film for his camera or suddenly bursting out of the most unexpected places to snap a picture at you. You gotta be honest here, your chest swallows a bit with pride at Dave’s attempt at being stealthy like you, but by the time you wake up at 7am on a Sunday morning to take a piss, half-asleep and more than a bit hung-over, and you find Dave suddenly jumping out from behind the bath curtains with his camera in hand, that’s when you begin to lose your cool.

You are presented with a choice: either to break the lil dude’s heart by taking the camera away from him, or to be a supportive parental figure and endure the torture like a motherfucking pro. It takes you about three hours of surfing the net and going through all kinds of forums for first-time mothers to make up your mind and come up with a suitable solution. So the next morning, you sit the kid on the kitchen counter and explain the situation to him: if he wants to keep with these photographer shenanigans, he’ll have to assume responsibility and start paying for his own films.

“But how do I do that?” Dave asks, a confused expression on his face.

“You have an allowance,” you remind the kid. It isn’t much, really; you give him a few bucks a month for his bus money and in case he wants some candy when he’s at school. He’d probably be able to buy two or three films with it.

“But it’s so small. Can’t you raise it?”

You consider that thought for a while. Last year, you opened this new business online and it’s been growing quite nicely—apparently there are a shitton of pervs out there willing to pay loads of money for weird puppet porn. You’re slowly getting on track, filing your taxes on time and repaying some of your debts. It wouldn’t hurt your wallet to throw some extra dollars at your lil bro, right? Except what you’re trying to do here is to keep a tight rein on your brother’s film buying, and it would be stupid to smooth the progress for him.

“You gotta make your own money, kiddo.”

You suggest selling lemonade, and surprisingly Dave accepts without much hesitation. He seems quite excited over the idea of earning a few bucks of his own. You drive him to school that day, leaving him with the promise of buying all the supplies needed to get his small enterprise going and teaching him the complex ways of lemonade making in the weekend. “With a bit of luck,” you think, “maybe this whole ordeal will be over soon.”

Oh, how fucking wrong you were.

You may have managed to bring the camera issue to a standstill, but a guardian’s job is never done. That very same evening, when Dave is trying to do his homework on the kitchen table and you are doing the dishes—weirdly enough—, you realize parenting will never be a simple task. Once the kid finishes with his math, he moves to his English homework and studies the guidelines for his next assignment. You’ve taught him how to read and write a while back, but he still has to take his time until he has the whole sentence deciphered, so you examine the paper from over his shoulder while he slowly mumbles the words as he reads.

“So I have to draw what I did over the summer?” he questions after he’s done.

“And write a thing, yeah.”

“Cool.”

You don’t point out that no sort homework is under your definition of cool—after all, the kid is still young and raw. What else are you gonna do if your lil bro really loves coloring other than to wordlessly accept it? He’s smart. He’ll eventually understand the ways of coolness, you are sure.

You silently go back to the dishes, as you leave your little bro to tackle his work on his own. You don’t wanna be one of those parents that supervises everything the kid is doing, ‘sides, you know Dave is capable of doing a rather decent job with his homework. You’ll check it out once he’s done in case he makes some major mistake, but you know for certain the kid can be trusted with a little responsibility.

“Bro.”

“Yeah?”

“What did I do over the summer?”

“We sat in front of the TV and watched cartoons,” you answer without giving it much thought. In your defense, you’re currently battling a pretty tenacious grease stain out a frying pan, so you can’t pay too much attention. And it’d have been weird if you hadn’t spent at least some of your time laying around watching anime reruns on your ancient TV.

“That’s boring,” he states, thoughtfully fiddling with his pencil. “I should write about something more exciting. An adventure.”

“Latest season, dude.”

 “Still boring.”

“Shit exploded everywhere.”

“What.”

“Fucking blood all over the screen.”

“Bro, we watched Sailor Moon.”

“Murderous maho shojos running around slaughtering lil bros who don’t do their homework and are a pain in the ass to their older siblings—”

“Whatever,” he stops you mid-sentence, and you can’t help but to frown at that. You were going somewhere with your rambling. Painting a picture with your ever-flowing words. “I’ll just say we did ninja training.”

 “Wait, no, you can’t write that.”

“What? Why?”

You should tell him the truth, really. Dave’s older now, he’ll surely understand if you explain that some people are not so open-minded as you are, that some uncool folks don’t consider it appropriate for a kid to be handling sharp objects at such a small age. But it’s late, you’re tired, and you’ve been working your ass off the whole day trying to make your apartment look decent for a change: you’re clearly not in the mood for this.

 “Look, bro, just make something else up.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, kid,” you say, trying not to sound as exasperated as you actually are. This being a good guardian act is getting old real fast, and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to pull it off.  “Tell’em we went camping.”

“But we didn’t.”

“Gotta lie like a motherfucker, then.”

“But Ms. Waters says lying is wrong.”

For a few mere seconds, you feel like strangling the kid. Or maybe repeatedly banging your head against the wall. Probably both. It takes a significant amount of effort for you to suppress those instincts and simply state the obvious:

“It is.”

“Then why do I have to do it? Can I just tell them the truth?”

“No.”

“But Brooo!”

“It’s complicated. Let it go.”

That shuts him off for a bit. You think you’ve won yourself two, maybe three peaceful minutes without Dave being an annoying bastard, but clearly, that’s not gonna be the case. So the lil dude does the next infuriating thing on his how-to-be-a-bothersome-little-pest-and-drive-your-older-brother-insane-with-your-antics list, which happens to be pouting, and the kid knows damn well how much you hate when he does that.  Pro tip: never pick up a random baby from a crater, because said hairless smelly monkey is gonna fucking destroy you, starting with consuming every little cent of whatever money you got, and ending with making a total wreck of your mind and therefore obliterating your sanity.

“Dave. Stop fussing. You’ll get it when you are older.”

“How much older?”

“Just older,” even if inside you are head there is this angry frustrated screeching going on, you somehow manage to keep your cool and restrain your voice to your usual inexpressive drawl. You deserve an award for that. What a good, understanding brother you are.

Dave, on the other hand, doesn’t look particularly convinced, but at least he stops complaining and accepts the fact that he’s not gonna write about doing ninja training. That’s a small victory for you—but you can’t lower your guard now, you still need to win the whole battle.

“Then what am I supposed to write about?”

“Just say that we set out camp somewhere.”

“But how am I gonna know what we did if we never did it?”

“Use your imagination.”

Silence. For a brief second, you actually think you’ve finally averted the situation.

 “I really wanted to go camping.”

Oh my fucking god. This kid’s gonna drive you nuts.

Although you gotta admit that that last bit was, in fact, true: over the holidays, Dave had been bugging you to take him camping about five times a day. You would have said yes, but you were too busy melting to try and indulge the kid. Summers were hot as balls in Texas, it was hard enough to come up with the energy to stand from the coach and get a cold beer, let alone go on a camping trip. However, it had been really selfish of you to deny the kid the sheer joy of newly gained mosquito bites and pissing in the bushes. You feel the sting of guilt beginning to prod at your conscience, even if its only a tiny bit.

And therefore you sigh.

“I tell you what we’ll do, lil man,” you say, slipping on the chair beside him. “Tonight we pitch a tent in the roof and see what camping’s like. You write about that, just say it happened sooner. How’s that sound to you?”

You should scold the kid for so easily breaking his poker face, but the toothy grin he flashes at you is enough to shut your criticism for now. The way he smiles so cheerfully is proof enough of how delighted he is at the idea, and even though a part of your brain is completely sure you are entering dangerous territory here, that little, more sympathetic voice inside your head insists you should have done this sooner.

“Can Cal come with us?” asks Dave, looking from behind his shades with a hopeful expression on his face.

“Yeah sure, why not.”

“Cool.”

Yeah, now we’re talking. That totally fits your definition of cool. Or at least you think so, until Dave blurts out excitedly:

“I’ll need film for my camera!”

Well, fucking shit. You should have let the kid take that katana to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so u know, next chapter's probably gonna take a bit longer since i haven't even started writing it yet. sorry for the inconvenience. again, u r more than welcome to suggest any topics u'd like to see on this fic. also, thank u for commenting and leaving kudos.


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